M. Peevie can make a two-minute morning routine take half an hour. Even though she's only nine, she loves the mirror, and she won't leave the bathroom until her hair looks exactly the way she wants it to look: side ponytail, bangs hanging over one eye, tendrils perfectly waved. I don't know where she gets this from. Certainly not from her mother: there have been times when I've gone through half my morning before I realize that I totally forgot to brush my hair. I'm not proud of this; it's just the way it is.
Also, M. Peevie has no sense of urgency, until after we're already late getting out the door. Then there are tears and regrets and promises to do better next time.
"I hate promises," I tell her, as I tell all my kids. "Promises mean nothing to me. You know what means something? Doing it means something."
But some mornings contain moments of grace, and even humor. Today, for example, I was trying to motivate M. Peevie to get up off her butt and get moving. "Wait," she said.
"There is no 'wait'," I paraphrased the Jedi Master, "There is only 'do'."
She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. "Shakespeare?" she said, guessing at the source of my wisdom.
"No, darling," I said. "Yoda."
"Oh," she said. "My next guess was going to be Jesus."